


Painting

by Homosexualrussian, TwinDragons0268



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: A cute brat, Aged-Up Yuri Plisetsky, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Art Criticism, Art History, Barcelona AU, Domestic Fluff, Drama & Romance, Eventual Romance, Fluff and Angst, He gets a house in Barcelona, His favorite art gallery, Humor, I Will Go Down With This Ship, It's a giant portrait, M/M, May come back later, Minor Otayuri in the background, Mostly Victuuri though, OC's have minor roles, Painting, Portraits, Romance, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, VictUuri, Victor takes a break from skating, Victor wants to be hit in the face, Yuri Plisetsky is a Brat, Yuuri is a portrait, Yuuri is beauty, Yuuri is grace, he comes out of said portrait and magic ensues, he visits it every day, of Yuuri, the gallery gets a new painting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-10-26 09:21:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10783977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Homosexualrussian/pseuds/Homosexualrussian, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwinDragons0268/pseuds/TwinDragons0268
Summary: When Victor Nikiforov settles into his comfy new Barcelona apartment, he isn't expecting much other than new people, the possibility of learning a new language, and lots of free time.However, frequent visits to the local art gallery seem to be a constant- so much so that he's become a regular. He knows each painting, sculpture, and collage by heart- though he certainly has his favorites.When certain circumstances lead to paintings becoming more than just canvas, Victor thinks that his break may become a little more interesting than planned.When one Katsuki Yuuri is added to the mix, Victor realizes thatinterestingis an understatement.





	1. Chapter 1

“Goodbye, Victor,” he scoffed. “Have fun _waltzing around_ Barcelona and throwing away your entire career - are you even listening to me?!”

In all truth, Victor was. He was listening, but what was Yuri saying that hadn’t been said before? Responsibility this, career that, it was all the same, blending together after a time. It was a “foolish and horrible decision” to take a break, according to Yakov, and similar sentiments had been shared around the community, though most were without the following hour of yelling.

Do recall that he had said _most._

Yuri Plisetsky, unlike his kind but saddened fans, was not _most._ He had given Victor the brunt of what was on his mind, and that included yelling, screaming, and one glass vase thrown at his head. (He really liked that vase, but at that moment in time he thought it best not to mention it.)

It was simply that he didn’t feel it anymore - the spark. The burning ember that had fueled his gold-studded career was gone, and Victor had no idea how to get it back. He could reach and grasp, but when it came to, all he found was air. Empty, meaningless stuff that doused his love of the sport as fast as it had ignited it, and over time the rest of the world began to see it too. His routines didn’t have the same _thing_ that they used to - the same _thing_ that brought him to the very top and kept him there.

There was a reason that Victor Nikiforov was number one, and that reason, it seemed, was no more.

So here he was, with a chic apartment in Barcelona, living a reportedly competition-free life that was composed of Catalan food, walking his dog, more Catalan food, and visiting the-

“Yo. Old Geezer. I know you’ve got grey hair, but are you going senile, too?”

Yuri’s snarky voice had his head jerking up, nose scrunching at the jab made at his age. Honestly. He was only 27…!

“Yes,” he responded.

Yuri’s eyes narrowed, knowing that he really wasn’t, but continued speaking anyways. “Really, I’m glad that you’re gone. Now I can finally overtake you… ” he rambled on, not really feeling exactly what he was saying, and Victor could see it too. He knew Yuri didn’t want him to go, that much had been expressed with the Vase Incident. This was merely to recover lost pride, and possibly make himself look bigger in front of the best-friend-boyfriend (“He’s _not_ my boyfriend!”, Yuri would protest repeatedly, though it truly was a lost cause) currently waiting down the hall.

“And if you ever do decide to come back…” he hesitated, voice small. “I’ll be glad to let you back on the second-place podium.”

Though not an outright ‘I’ll miss you’, Victor supposed that this was the closest he was going to get, so he took it with a smile.

And then Yuri Plisetsky walked away, his legs moving swiftly towards the direction of his fellow skater.

Otabek Atlin waited patiently with his usual blank expression, and they left into the warm afternoon.

 

“Goodbye, Yuri! Good luck on your next routine! Davai!” he called after their retreating forms, as he tried not to let his impatience show. Victor was bugging, he knew, anxiously waiting for Yuri and Otabek to leave so he could sneak away from his cozy apartment to the gorgeous town in front of him. In and of itself it was jaw-dropping, but what lay _inside,_ Victor knew, was worth waiting for. It was, without a doubt, a hidden gem.  

As soon as their car had driven down the street, Victor was out of the apartment, making his way to the one place that enraptured his attention again and again, without fail: the art gallery.

 

Victor hummed a cheery tune as he strolled leisurely down the pavement, clad in his dark grey trench coat and warm scarf, taking in the now-familiar sights with an easy grin. His trousers, easy to walk in and just as comfortable, were a wool and polyester blend that kept his toned legs warm, flowing down and slowly reaching his dark-brown-almost-black dress shoes. Victor always wore this outfit when going to his favorite place, his safe spot. It made him feel just as out of place as the other strangers mulling about: like a tourists, like it was his first time being there all over again.

Victor entered the small gallery, shivering despite his warm mood.

As soon as the tall door opened, his nose was flooded by the sweet smell of the candles that they always burned, giving off much more warmth than a candle rightly should. Victor had no complaints, though, as the warm vanilla-and-chestnuts scent always seemed to soothe when none else could.

Victor was a local to the gallery, and by this point most of the staff already knew his name. The young woman at the front desk was especially nice, possessing endless amounts of patience for the Italian-learning foreigner (from experience, without a doubt) and always giving a friendly smile or wave.

Today, though, it seemed as if she wasn’t there, and Victor cocked his head in puzzlement. He had never once seen Rosa away from her post, unless…

Victor walked a bit faster, feeling slightly out of place as he paced around, glancing at each wall as he did so.

“Ah, Victor! Hello, Victor!” a voice said from behind him, and Victor startled, spinning around immediately to the sight of the short desk-girl struggling with a new painting ( _A new painting!!_ ) but desperately trying to make it not seem so. As much as he liked her, Rosa could not be described as very… tall.

“Hello, Rosa,” he greeted amiably.

“What’re you doing there? Do you need help?”

“Yes, yes, please!”  she huffed, not one to pass up the offer to help when it was so obviously needed.  

She carefully handed the painting to Victor, which he gingerly took into his own hands, muscles tensing as she finally let go.

He frowned, not expecting it to be as heavy as it was. The ornate frame was most of the weight, but with a few minutes of gentle lifting finally managed to give it a suitable place on the wall.

 _Honestly!_ He thought.

 _Why on Earth would they give the task of assembling new art to_ her?

No offense meant to Rosa, of course, but almost anyone could see that she was perhaps not the best person to assign the job to. He couldn’t be there to help every time, and heaven forbids that she ever get hurt…  

A soft whoosh brought Victor out of his thoughts, and he stared at the painting in question. Covered in a thin linen sheet, there was no doubt that this was a new piece, or at least for him.

Mouth quirking in excitement, Victor glanced back to Rosa, who was already smiling and shaking her head. She knew just how happy he got when a new work was added, and how the man was fickle in most things and that his attention would soon be moved elsewhere. However, if there ever was a time to pay attention, this was certainly it. Rosa had seen the new piece, and it was… well. Suffice to say, the effort put forward into simply hanging the thing would undoubtedly be worth it.

She nodded, and Victor practically lunged forward, grabbing the sheet and pulling it away, though careful so as not to damage the art.

It billowed down, shielding his eyes for only a moment more before finally, _finally_ revealing the painting underneath.

Silence.

No one was speaking, not even the other few gradually making their way through, and Rosa was smiling.

Victor?

He was gaping. Open-mouthed, unabashedly, _gaping._

For what he saw painted in painstaking strokes and intricate color was a portrait, possibly- no, _definitely_ the most beautiful one he had ever seen in his whole existence of 27 years and counting.  
And this was saying a lot, coming from one who had traveled the world and seen all manner of portraits, from old to new, from abstract to realistic.

Blues.

Blacks.

Browns.

Silvers.

So many ornate strokes to create a masterpiece.

For if anything could be considered a masterpiece, this, without one  _shred_ of a doubt, would. 


	2. Chapter 2

Ring…

Ring…

Ring…

SLAM!

 

Victor let out a muffled groan, and blearily peeled his still sleep-weary eyes open. If he could just have one more hour of sleep-

Victor cursed soundly as he beheld the clock’s small red numbers, practically throwing himself out of the tangle of sheets that made up his queen-sized bed. His usual skating grace, however, was nowhere to be found as he promptly fell face-first onto the very hard, very cold ground. He briefly considered replacing every single hardwood service with soft, comfortable carpet, but-  
An excited boof! intercepted his thoughts, and Victor couldn’t help the wide grin that tugged at his lips. The creature that created said sound was the exact reason for the lack of carpet, but he wouldn’t trade him for the world, and certainly not for a bit of morning comfort.  
With no small amount of effort, Victor managed to right himself and zombie-walk (as quickly as one could when they were half-asleep) to his closet, choosing something mildly presentable, absent-mindedly running his fingers through his bed head as he did.  
His mind was jumbled and unorganized, most likely from the effects of the now-empty bottle of vodka sitting on the table. However, all tangible thoughts emptied out of Victor’s head when he saw the little note posted on the refrigerator, left there in the case of something happening just like this.  
It was innocent enough, the small orange note, but what was written on it was anything but.

Don’t forget your interview tomorrow!! If I know myself at all, I’ve probably forgotten. DON’T FORGET.

It was signed with a cheeky winky face with a small frill of hair on one side, bearing a slight resemblance to its creator. Now, however… he wanted to crunch up the little piece of paper and burn it. Preferably with all that damn paperwork-  
For his new job application.

Victor scrambled to the best of his ability, hastily double-checking himself before he ran out the door. Breakfast? No time. You’re-beautiful-and-you-know-it wink to himself before he left the house? Quite regrettably, no time.  
“Dammit Victor, the one time you could get hung over-” Victor murmured to himself as he ran out of his door and hopping onto his bike, pedaling faster than was most likely socially acceptable, but at the moment, socially acceptable was not at the top of his priorities.

Ever since Victor had taken a break from skating, it had always been for leisure, but lately his break had also been about wanting to live a normal life - one that a non-famous, non-legend-of-figure-skating pedestrian would live. So today, as a part of that sweet new revelation, Victor had a job interview.

He was late.

Victor growled a muffled Russian curse, giving way to startled looks by the strangers walking down the street. They most likely didn’t know what he said, but the meaning was clear. “Please let me not be too late, please, please pleeeeease..” Victor was a blur, passing over the bike rack completely and practically throwing it to the ground. The automatic doors slid open with a mechanical whoosh, and he darted quickly inside.

Modern layout, despite the older building, and a long staircase leading upstairs. A small and tidy receptionist’s desk was set inconspicuously to his left, a similarly small and tidy woman tending it. She looked up from her work and glared at the now-panting Russian man, pressing a button that hopefully meant that he wasn’t out of a job. Yet.

A door, a couple of feet away from the receptionist’s desk, opened to reveal a tall yet slightly stubby man. He briefly peered at the packet of papers in hand before passing a tired gaze to Victor. “Victor… Nikiforov?” He absolutely butchered the last name, but right now none of that mattered. What Victor needed was this job, and last name mispronunciations would come later.  
Without another backward glance, he turned heel and motioned with one hand to follow.  
Well. This was turning out wonderfully.

 

His office was large, and accented with a deep color palate, more masculine and professional than Victor would have liked.

“Yes,” he replied, still slightly out of breath. “Hello.”

“Hello Mr. Nikiforov. I’m Mr. Lopez. How’re you?”  
Victor almost winced, almost, at the way he said his name, but managed to avoid it.  
Keep it cool, Nikiforov. You are one of the most renowned skaters in history; you’ve faced the Olympics and come back with a gold medal. You can scrounge up enough confidence to get through a job interview.  
“ I’m well,” he said. “How’re you?”

The atmosphere could almost be cut with a knife, the tension was so thick.  
Obviously late, Victor felt disheveled and exhausted, so he could only imagine how he looked. Doubtless, not professional in the least.

“May I know your first name, Mr. Lopez?” Victor asked with a cheery smile, fake for those who knew him. This man, however, did not, but that didn’t stop the annoyed glare that was sent his way.

“No, but you can sit.” Lopez had already sat down in his plush and leather chair, reaching into his desk and pulling out two files. One was named ‘V.N. Personal’, another was scrawled ‘Skating’ at the very top, both with two illegible dates next to them. Messy. Great.

“Let’s get this straight, Mr. Nikiforov.” Hardly a word that Victor would use to describe himself, but-  
“I understand that you were a professional figure skater. However,” his tone dropped flat as he looked at Victor once more, taking in his rushed appearance. He slid the ‘V.N. Personal’ folder towards him and opened his stubbly mouth to continue.  
“If you think your former status will ensure you a position here, I can assure you that it won’t.” He stressed ‘former’ with an almost-sneer, and Victor inwardly sighed. There were always two types of people. Those who missed him and lamented his leave, or those that didn’t care. Behold, Exhibit A.

Victor nonetheless nodded affirmatively and sat there stiffly, looking at the near-empty file on the plain desk in front of him.  
“Yes, I understand that. Thank you, sir.”

“Well. Now that we have that out of the way, let’s talk about what exactly your position entails, yes? Most of the material will be…,” the man continued droning, and Victor, still half-asleep, slightly hungover, and not one to have a very long attention span in the first place, started to drift. And when his mind drifted (a most regular occurrence), he usually thought of one thing: the painting. He couldn’t stop thinking about that painting. The intricate strokes of brown, creating eyes that, had he not lifted the painting himself, would have looked more-than realistic to his own. What masterpiece could be conceived with such beautiful-

“Victor Nikiforov! Are you even paying attention? Do you want this job at all?!” Mr. Lopez’s voice was as sharp as a knife, and easily cut Victor out of his peaceful daze. Ah, yes. Job interview.  
“Y-yes sir. I apologize.” Victor shook himself roughly, mentally cursing last night’s self.  
Idiot. Should have never stayed up late and drank-

“Leave my office.”

Well. Not that it was completely unexpected, but Victor still started nonetheless.  
“Excuse me, what?”  
“I said,” he ground, teeth clenching, “Leave. My. Office.”  
“What? But what about the job-”  
“The job, Mr. Nikiforov, is apparently not important enough for you to even bother paying attention to! Pray tell, what could be so important that you could not give me ten minutes of your time to speak about your possible employment?!”  
Oh! He could speak about the painting all day, if he really wanted to. After all, he did ask-  
Seeing Victor about to open his mouth, Lopez growled and pointed one finger at the door. “Get out,” he said. “Now.”  
Seeing as there was nothing that could possibly be done to remedy the situation, Victor merely inclined his head and stood. “I apologize, again. Goodbye.”  
If he was being completely honest, though, the job likely wouldn’t last long anyways. He knew himself well enough, so why on earth would he apply for a desk job? Ah, yes. Money. That was why he would apply for a desk job. Though skating managed to pull his weight while it lasted, those funds wouldn’t stay for very much longer, especially not while living in the heart of Barcelona, Spain. Granted that his apartment wasn’t as big as most, it was still decent, and located in a golden location to boot. He had promised Yakov he would try, when he bought the place, so trying he was. Yakov, however, forgot to mention that finding a job was damned hard!  
He huffed a sigh and yanked up his bike, taking note of the scratches littering it’s side, and resignedly climbed atop it. Acting on a whim in quick situations? On it. Thinking things through to come out with the best outcome? Less so. Some would say that he wasn’t able to think at all, but really. His brain was perfectly fine at thinking, it was just thinking ahead that presented an issue. He was a live-in-the-moment type of person, and that was probably why, instead of heading home, he had turned left onto the route to the art gallery. Just a peek surely wouldn’t hurt, right? Then he would go home, get on his computer, and find another job opportunity. (Really, he would… Probably.) Then he could take Makkachin on a walk, and maybe-not-so-accidentally slide by a certain street, yet again.  
See? He could think ahead. Take that, Yuri Plisetsky, with your derogatory comments and insane vase-throwing abilities (really though, how could he aim that well?).  
He rode his bike a few blocks and practically ran into the vanilla-scented gallery, speeding past Rosa and going straight to the painting. “Fuck,” Victor whispered to himself. It’s gorgeous. He’s gorgeous. “I’d give anything.” Yet another whisper. He stood there for what seemed forever but also not long enough. Everything seemed like a contradiction in the presence of that painting. Victor left, realizing he had stayed there until closing, walking back disappointedly and waving to Rosa.

“Goodbye, Rosa. See you soon!”

“Don’t you mean tomorrow, Victor.”

“Maybe.” Victor exhaled a laugh and walked out, ditching his bike knowing Rosa would take care of it and went for a long stroll in the colorful night-city instead.

It had only been three months since the painting had arrived, and it had entranced Victor so much that what used to be forgetting to lock his doors due to never ending thoughts of the portrait, was now being asked to leave from an interview. Victor shook off the thought nibbling at his mind, that he may be in love with a painting, and walked through the city to arrive at his home, where he could safely think about the painting.

Rather than zoning out at the crosswalk.


	3. UPDATE

TwinDragons0268 and I will not be posting for a while due to finals. (Maybe a month or so? Because after finals I have to create CH.3 and she has to beta it and make it better. We're taking a break so we can improve the overall quality of the next chapters. Thank you!!)


End file.
